


in vulnerability, ...

by natalunasans



Series: Fellow Adventurers [5]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: Asexual Character, Asthma, Biracial Character, Caretaking, Chicken Soup, Companionable Snark, Discworld References, Doctor/Companion Friendship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Female Character of Color, Female Jewish Character, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Pneumonia, Relationship Negotiation, Robot Feels, Robot/Human Relationships, Sickfic, TARDIS rooms, master/companion friendship, tardis gardens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:03:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalunasans/pseuds/natalunasans
Summary: The TARDIS really likes Alison.Alison becomes ill and circumstances prevent the Doctor from taking care of her.The Master displays some previously unknown skills.Alison learns just enough about her travelling companions to be even more intrigued.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know if you see any UK english (etc.) mistakes or any medical implausibilities.

Alison had never really given it much thought one way or another, but most people that knew her back in Sheffield would have considered her a high-energy person.  She would regularly walk or cycle round large portions of the city, work part-time, go out to clubs with her mates, and still get in massive amounts of revising any given weekend.  It was the same in Lannet: she’d work long hours at the pub and still be up bright and early the next day to see Joe off, get some reading in, and then run errands before the place opened at noon.  She rarely even slept in on Mondays, her most usual day off.  So she’d assumed there’d be no difficulty keeping pace with two… well, they weren’t exactly pensioners (regardless how many hundreds of years old they claimed to be), but one couldn’t even leave the ship, and the other seemed, well, a bit creaky.  

She’d been wrong. Those two could outlast Alison or any of the young people she knew. Although the Master was confined to the TARDIS, it was not for lack of resilience. The Doctor had told her in confidence that due to some sort of cosmic accident the Master would lose the non-robotic part of himself (his psyche, perhaps?), if he travelled too far from the core of the TARDIS. Early on she’d been informed that The Master’s entire body was mechanical, and it became evident that the shell had been built to withstand quite a lot. She’d seen him reach into fires with bare hands, run up and down corridors (all the while protesting the indignity --but never the exertion-- of running), she even saw him shot in the leg with a laser blast in the doorway of the TARDIS, keep moving almost as normal, and later repair the damaged circuitry before the Doctor’s return... all without seeming to feel any pain. As for the Doctor, Alison had been told that the Gallifreyan species was more advanced biologically, but she’d originally put it down to that superior alien attitude again. But despite a pale and weary appearance and no discernible healthy habits, whenever they were out on adventures her host was always running about, springing up hills or staircases, and generally displaying fast reflexes worthy of the most athletic humans. 

The Master (although she never called him that… or anything, really, not to his face. Seriously, that guy needed a more appropriate nickname) still held many prejudices about terrans, and she suspected the Doctor did as well.  But she wasn’t that bothered what they thought.  They could be ever so clever and still be wrong about the human race. Anyway, the Doctor was always kind to her, and “Mister Robot” (as she thought of him) was always  _ polite _ , so their ideas about humans didn’t make much practical difference in her day-to-day existence.

After some weeks of travelling and adventuring non-stop, Alison didn’t like to admit to herself that she was feeling a bit off-colour… just sort of tired, bit of a sore throat, no big deal.  She had been too excited to see everything and do everything.  With the universe spread out before you, it seemed a pity to remind the TimeLords that humans usually sleep several hours a night, not just when it strikes their fancy or they keel over in exhaustion. Think of what you could miss by sleeping through it!  

When Alison came down with what she thought was a cold, she felt as if the suspense was over, in a way.  She didn’t even think to mention it to the Doctor, as that happened to be the week that the TARDIS needed some sort of major --and apparently confidential-- repairs.  The Doctor and...  _ Himself  _ (as she thought of him in relation to the Doctor)... were occupied deep in the heart of the ship.  Normally Alison would’ve been at least vaguely curious about the engineering, and normally she’d have been asked along to observe, or even to help.  But she was relieved to agree, only a little hoarsely, when the Doctor invited her to amuse herself in the Library meanwhile.  Later she wondered if her two hosts were Discussing again, as well as fixing their motor.  They always found a way to avoid fighting around her, although she had the feeling their rows were very nearly as dramatic as their adventures (though  _ possibly _ with slightly less dodging of high tech weaponry).

Her first instinct was not to rest, but circumstances had conspired such that there really was nothing else to do. And if she were honest she'd been needing a bit of a break, and in the TARDIS even the Library could be an adventure.  Since she was starting to get a dry cough, she really wanted some lemsip, but this was an alien timeship, of course they wouldn’t have everything she was used to.  However, there was plenty of paracetamol handy in her en suite’s medicine cabinet.  She also found aspirin, but avoided it because the bottle had a mauve skull and crossbones hand-painted on it. She stopped by the kitchen and filled a thermos with hot sweet tea with lemon. 

Once in the Library, she made herself comfortable with whatever books caught her fancy... and didn’t spoiler earth’s near future for her.  She found that the TARDIS translation circuit even did books, if you asked nicely. She found it helped to be very still, with a calm and friendly attitude, and want it very very much.  Most of the time, the ship would oblige and the words would rearrange themselves into Earth English.  

There weren’t a lot of chores other than maintenance of the ship itself, so she didn't have any responsibilities and could always explore different rooms (the observatory was nice) if she got bored in the library.  

After a few days of forced ‘laziness’, combined with a return to her usual six-ish hours of sleep a night (compared to the Gallifreyan’s maybe as many hours per week, and the android’s zero), Alison was beginning to feel a bit more like herself.  She was still tired, though, and the cough still hadn't gone away, so she went to bed early, expecting that the next morning she’d be ready for anything. 


	2. Chapter 2

Alison woke up instead struggling for air; the sharp pain in her chest when she tried to breathe was one of the worst things she’d ever felt. Since she'd rarely been seriously ill, she hadn't a lot to compare it to, but it was right up there with the headache from the shalka. She sat up to catch her breath, which set her coughing, much harder than any of the irritation of the past few days had led her to expect. She’d thought she was almost well!  The sound of her own wheezing breath frightened her. She tried to pile up the pillows so she could lie back down a little; just turning round in the bed seemed to take a great effort. The room seemed cold suddenly, and she reached for the covers she’d somehow kicked off in the night, only to find them damp with sweat. She thought of going to the cupboard for some dry bedding, but just sitting up to cough had left her dizzy and weak, so she just pulled these blankets back up to her neck.  She still couldn't get warm but must have drifted in and out of uneasy sleep.  

Some time later, Alison was startled awake again, this time with deep coughs that shook her whole body.  A dim lamp came on, showing a new box of tissues on the bedside table, and even a metal waste basket much nearer the bed than she’d left it. Perhaps the TARDIS was even more observant --and friendly-- than she’d guessed.

She could hear her mum's reminder that “green means infection” and more than anything she just wanted to call home… or  _ go _ home, to be coddled and fed chicken soup. But, even if her mobile would work in the vortex (would it? There was so much she didn't yet understand about how things worked here), she couldn't imagine explaining time travel to her parents. Not today, anyway.  And if her new... friends?... left her at her parents’ house, there was no guarantee she'd be allowed back into their adventures later, or even have a way of finding them again.  She slipped into a fretful half-sleep, and the lamp dimmed by its own volition.

The next time she woke, was to sotto-voce unintelligible arguing outside her bedroom door.  Although their words were strange (had the TARDIS chosen not to interpret?), the voices were clearly those of the Doctor and  _ Himself _ , rather obviously trying to be quiet but, in their urgency, not managing it. She wanted to ask them what was the matter, but drifted off again.  When she woke up properly, the voices had stopped; she still had chills and the drowning feeling was back in her lungs. She rolled onto her side, facing the table and the door, and coughed weakly.  The ache when she tried to breathe was, if possible, worse now.  She didn't have the strength to sit up, and could barely catch her breath between coughs.  She couldn’t tell if the pain in her stomach was digestive trouble, muscle strain from coughing… or fear.

There was a knock at the door.  

“Doctor...?”, she only managed a whisper.

The door opened and Alison tried to focus on the pair of silhouettes in the doorway.  The Doctor made to step forward into the room, but Mister Robot was having none of it.  

“Alison…” the Doctor started, voice tight with suppressed emotion, but was cut off.  

“Miss Cheney, it appears that you are ill.  It would be inadvisable for the Doctor to be exposed to contagion at present, so  _ it has been decided _ ” (he looked pointedly at the Doctor as if to forestall any lingering argument) “that I, being immune to biological infirmities, will look after you.”

Her face must have shown some of the doubt she was feeling, because the Master went on:  “I have  _ given my word _ ” (again looking at the Doctor, indignant) “that I shall provide the same quality of care as my… associate would.” 

The Doctor nodded, and added “You'll be well looked after,” with... guilt? at being forced to shirk responsibility?

The promises reassured her a bit, and plus, what was she going to say?   _ No, leave me here to die! _ or  _ Just drop me off at the next planet!? _  So she nodded, and said with some effort,  “Okay then.”  Speaking was still a bad idea, as she choked on those few words and started another fit of coughing.  

The Doctor looked stricken, but was shooed away and summarily dispatched down the corridor.  Mister Robot closed the door and approached the bed, walking confidently as if he could see perfectly well in the darkness.  With his advanced eye-mech, he must have been able to adjust his vision even more than biological Gallifreyans could.

All Alison could see were the green lights of his eyes coming closer.  She had some very decided and strong thoughts about the consequences if he were to try again to hypnotise her right now.  Much as she’d like to go right back to sleep, that was not the way to do it.

The green lights disappeared for a fraction of a second and she realised that he’d blinked.  She also remembered that robots didn’t need to blink.  “Miss Cheney, I'm going to run some scans if that’s quite alright. Would you like the ambient lighting on so that you can see what I'm doing?” 

Alison nodded, vaguely impressed.  She filed away what had happened for later, when she could think more clearly.

The low ceiling now emitted a soft light. 

“Would you like to sit up?” when she gave a feeble attempt, he proffered an arm for her to support herself whilst he fixed the pillows behind her.  Seated, she could breathe a little better, but she was so cold...

Mister Robot stood by the bed and ran an unfamiliar device along the length of her torso, with a remove of about 10cm.  She tried to be still but couldn’t stop shaking.  The scanner bleeped and blinked alarmingly; he glared at the display, changed a few settings, and scanned again. “Homo Sapiens Terrestre, XXI century… that’s better!” This time the blinks and bleeps were only slightly less frenetic, and he consulted the readout with an inscrutable expression. She didn't have long to wait for information, though.

“Internal temperature of 40C -- very high fever, even for  _ your _ species. Blood oxygen levels are low. Bilateral pulmonary infection with purulent fluid. It appears you have bacterial pneumonia, but a highly contagious type.” There was something of vindication in his tone, a sort of ‘I-told-you-so’ to the absent Doctor. “My dear Miss Cheney, I'm afraid your condition indicates isolation and bed rest.”  

_ Good job I wasn't planning on going jogging _ , she very much wanted to say, but didn't.  Mister Robot gave her a disapproving this-is-serious glance, almost as if he'd read her mind.  He couldn't  _ really _ do that, could he?!

He looked at the screen once more.  “People with  _ lungs _ should try to take several deep breaths per hour.”

She wanted to ask what kind of people  _ didn’t _ have lungs, well, apart from people like him that didn’t need to breathe. Which honestly was slightly creepy, until you thought about how handy it must be.  And also “what’s wrong with lungs? You didn’t have to say that like it was something disgusting!”, but between chattering teeth and... her own currently  _ inconvenient _ lungs, she never got past the first word.  As she doubled over coughing again, Mister Robot laid a hand on her shoulder, and stayed with her until she could catch her breath.  

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Miss Cheney... Regardless, I am sure we have some human-compatible antibiotics in our laboratory. According to the scan you had no allergies to common compounds.  Is this correct?” 

She nodded.

“I shall be back presently. Please do not try to get up… and… don't let the Doctor in.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mister Robot returned with a syringe, an assortment of pills (some more paracetamol as well as the antibiotics), and a large glass of water.  “Do you think you could swallow these tablets?”

Alison took one look at the syringe and decided to at least try the other option. She’d drink some water first, as an experiment.  The tablets really were very small.  She just managed to get down the indicated ones, despite how raw her throat was.  

When she nearly choked on the second pill, Mister Robot muttered something derogatory about humans having “no respiratory bypass”.  Alison had no idea what that was, but she looked him straight in the eyes and thought very clearly:  _ you haven’t got one either, so you can sod off and all. _  She was amazed when he broke eye contact first.

The water had felt good, so she gulped the rest of it, which maybe wasn't the best idea.  Now she felt queasy, and soon, after lots of tea yesterday and then this water... well, this was embarrassing.  Especially since she felt she’d just told him off.  But had she?  Regardless, she really needed the loo.  She managed a whisper.  

Mister Robot bent and offered her both gloved hands and she tried to pull herself up, but she was desperately weak and still shaking uncontrollably with chills.  Alison only realised she was crying when she felt tears run down her face. 

“Would you like me to…?” he gestured with his arms.  When she hung her head in resignation, Mister Robot scooped her up, one arm behind her back and the other under her knees, and lifted her from the bed with no uneasiness whatsoever, as if he were used to carrying people about. It was completely awkward for Alison, especially in sweat-soaked pyjamas, but she’d have been silly to try to walk in this state.  He lowered her carefully to her feet inside the bathroom, made sure she could support herself against the sink, and closed the door on his way out. 

Once she'd flushed and washed her hands and face, he knocked --must've been waiting for the sounds of water to stop-- and helped her back to the bed.  The sheet and duvet had been replaced with dry ones.  

He indicated a clean t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, neatly folded on a nearby chair. “I’ll step out if you'd like to change.” She nodded and he went into the corridor, closing the door.  Her hands were clumsy and she had to stop several times due to dizziness and shaking. The ends of her fingers were going sort of purplish; that definitely meant something bad, she was sure she’d read it somewhere… 

Only now, as she struggled out of the damp flannel, did she think of Joe. She hugged her arms round herself in the welcome softness of her own old t-shirt, and thought, that couldn't be right. Separated after almost two years together, and she hadn't missed him yet?!  Well, there'd been so much to do here since she came onboard. During none of their escapades so far had she thought “Joe would love this!” because in all honesty he would have hated every moment of it.  But she hadn't even missed his… physical presence that much.  Having a partner must be alright if you had that… absolute  _ connection _ , the way the Doctor and  _ Himself _ evidently had. Where it wouldn't matter what you did or didn't do, you just somehow  _ belonged _ together. But there'd always been something lacking between her and Joe. It wasn't Joe’s  _ character _ : he was a good guy, no meanness in him… his main defect was being a bit, well, boring.  And yet her lack of attraction wasn't to do with him specifically: she'd never really fancied anyone, male or female (etcetera), the way most of her friends seemed to.  She might one day, or never.  And she didn't feel like that was a problem either, despite what Joe might have thought (it was one of the many things they’d never quite got round to sorting out between them).  Maybe it was better to be alone. Well, not  _ alone _ … she quite enjoyed  _ company _ , like in her current situation: the two intergalactic travellers kept things interesting.  Or she might share with flatmates when (if?) she ever returned to normal life... But having tried  _ being with _ someone romantically, it seemed more trouble than it was worth.

Alison was startled out of her thoughts when Mister Robot knocked again. Really this comedy of doors was getting silly, but she appreciated the respect.  He came back in and looked her up and down. She was still sitting on top of the duvet, having used all her energy getting changed.  His mechanical face was expressionless, unreadable... but she was sure she must be a pitiful sight, sweating and shivering and too weak to move. 

“Back you go, Miss Cheney,” he said, tapping the pillows, and helped her up under the covers.  

She was already wheezing, and soon started coughing again, badly.  Even after that bout had passed, her breathing was still laboured and she felt even more dizzy than when she'd been trying to stand.

He indicated her hands. “You're going cyanotic. How decorative!  The TARDIS  _ will be _ increasing the room’s oxygen level again.” As he said this, he fixed his most convincing stare at a ventilation grating in the wall, and very soon she felt the air change. “Now is as good a moment as any to do those deep breaths.”

Of course it hurt like hell. She could feel the fluid had taken over her lungs like when the shalka’s song had taken over her body: preventing the function, making autonomy nearly impossible.  She managed one deep breath, but it set her coughing. She gave it a good go, and the next time she got to three breaths before she had to cough even harder.

“Precisely what is meant to happen.  Clear your  _ lungs _ .”

Alison realised that she’d been gripping Mister Robot’s gloved hand and dropped it in embarrassment.

“It’s quite alright, remember I do not feel physical pain.  But you are rather strong, for a human of your build.”

Was  _ he _ calling her short?!  But she  _ didn’t _ have the strength to protest his cheek and also do more deep breaths, the latter of which seemed more important just now.   After a few repetitions, she lay back and began to drift off again in the cloud of oxygen-rich air that the bedroom wall emitted around her head.  

She must have already been asleep and starting to dream, because she could have sworn she heard Mister Robot say, very quietly, “And you'll need to stop thinking so loudly if you don't want me reading it…”


	4. Chapter 4

Alison didn’t know how long she was out. She wasn’t sleeping well enough to think clearly, and her conscious moments all ran together into a few composite impressions.

She only knew that every time she emerged confused from fever-dreams, or coughed herself awake, Mister Robot was always there.  He was usually reading, sat bolt upright, mechanical body never tiring or minding the uncomfortable chair.  Apparently even the eye-mech weren't powerful enough to read in the dark, because he had a clever little single LED that could pop out from behind the faceplate at will.  Once he left it on whilst checking on her, and she confused him for part of a dream where she was being rescued, half drowning, by spelunkers.  

He would put down his book (once she recognised the copy of Pratchett’s  Feet of Clay that she had no intention of returning to the TARDIS Library), and make sure she was comfortable and getting enough air.

In another dream, she was speaking to the shalka-controlled humans again, but this time she screamed long and loud until the pain in her throat came back.  Then she started coughing. She thought she was awake but no, she was still back in the cave. Every breath burned...  Out of her horrified mouth came snake after snake of molten lava, leaving her throat charred and voiceless. They twisted as they cooled and their shiny ceramic surface shattered into a million pieces as they hit the ground, but more kept appearing.  How ever had she swallowed so many of the shalka without noticing it?!  She woke up screaming, from that one.  Well, trying to scream and then coughing so hard that she thought the dream might become real.

When Alison woke up frightened from these feverish surreal dreams, Mister Robot would read out loud... but nothing funny, unless the idea was to provoke deep coughs by laughing.  The best were Gallifreyan books without translation, as the immeasurably foreign words in his quiet, precise voice lulled her into calm and she fell back asleep.

Other times he’d cajole her through the breathing exercises, with increasingly gentle species-based insults that she started to think maybe he didn’t mean.  Sometimes he’d help her to a glass of water or to get up if she needed.  A few times instead of water she was given to a cool, thick liquid, almost like a milkshake but with an indescribable, not unpleasant flavour, apparently a sort of protein shake generated by the TARDIS kitchen. 

When she woke up cross, fractured sleep having got the better of even her sense of humour, Mister Robot seemed to ignore her frustration, but would nonetheless do something useful, like get her more paracetamol or increase the oxygen again.  

Only once, during the worst of the illness, when she had been coughing painfully for hours, and was terribly sleep-deprived and feeling absolutely desperate to rest, did he offer to knock her out.  This time, she accepted, but hypnosis still seemed too… creepy, somehow.

“If you don't want to be hypnotised, Miss Cheney, there is another way.”  He did it by lightly pressing one thumb to her forehead, and… well, she wasn’t sure what happened next.  There was a sort of mental flash of… energy?  And without even feeling herself fall back against the pillows she was immersed in incredibly detailed dreams, somewhat more pleasant than the ones from fever alone, but nothing that she could remember when she woke up several hours later, finally feeling a bit rested.

She didn’t remember how many times he gave her the medication and pain reliever, but by the time the fever broke, most of the course of antibiotics was gone.

She wasn’t well yet, but in comparison with the last several days, there was a sense that the worst was over. In the increasing ambient ‘daylight’ that the TARDIS usually provided, on a Gallifreyan schedule, to simulate the passage of time, she looked over at what she now thought of as Mister Robot’s chair.  He was still there, this time with a book she didn't recognise. She shifted a little, propping herself up on one elbow.  It still hurt to breathe and her muscles still ached quite a bit, but she wasn't as weak as before, and she thought she could murder some breakfast.

“Miss Cheney! You're looking… partially alive!”

“Let me have a cuppa… and I won't say the same back at you.”  Her voice was hoarse from so many days out of commission, but she was relieved to be able to utter a whole sentence without hacking up a lung.  But had she misjudged? They had gotten so used to each other in these days that she hoped she could be familiar, but had the joke been too cruel? She was relieved to see a self-deprecating smile spread across Mister Robot’s face. 

“My dear, I think it's safe to say we have you back with us.   _ The Doctor _ will be very pleased.  And I believe your breakfast is not far away.”

In fact, the door swung open and the Doctor was there in the corridor with a bed tray full of most wonderful breakfast things.  They all beamed at each other in the simulated morning light, the Doctor trying to say something and not managing.  Then the tray was set down for the Master to retrieve, and the Doctor was gone.

She had to do the breathing and have another spell of deep, painful coughing, but at least her lungs felt clearer afterwards.  And she was glad the Doctor had been able to see her cheerful and showing improvement.

Mister Robot brought the tray over.  “Please remember to go slowly, you’ve not eaten properly in several days.”  

“Why are you such a good nurse?! It doesn't seem your style…” Alison’s old curiosity was back in force.

As she gradually made her way through buttered toast soldiers, a soft boiled egg, and several cups of tea, Mister Robot answered her questions.

"I have sometimes been able to be of service when the doctor was injured in some of the more catastrophic events that we have… witnessed.” 

She reckoned the two of them had done more than watch things unfold, perhaps sometimes even caused the conflagration.  But the way he hesitated, and the way his tone had gone unconvincingly dull when he mentioned the Doctor’s injuries… it didn't seem right to ask. 

She changed the topic slightly. “D’you think I'm still contagious?  Anyway I thought you lot couldn't get ill?”

“There are a few terran ailments that can infect Gallifreyans, although our… their… the superior immune system is  _ normally _ able to fight them off with great success. Unfortunately for the Doctor's current form, those include respiratory conditions such as influenza, pneumonia, even in extreme cases the so-called common cold.  I shall scan you again presently, but whilst there is any lingering infection, it would be unwise for you to have any contact with the Doctor.”

“You said, his current form…?  You make it sound like he's some sort of... shapeshifter!”

“There are many things that I am sure the Doctor will explain to you, in time. This is perhaps not the moment for a treatise on Gallifreyan biology.  You need to conserve your energy, Miss Cheney.”

Alison knew when she was being put off a trail, but if it really was the Doctor’s personal matters, she’d best not pry.  Still, she’d become so fond of the contradictory alien, at once so impervious and so vulnerable, that it was hard not to worry.  She’d seen the Doctor use an inhaler a few times, in the shalka’s cave, in the rain after it was all over, and again during one or two of their later adventures in damp climates.  Considering the amount of physical exertion --and singing!-- that she’d also witnessed, the asthma or whatever it was didn’t seem to be much of a hindrance.  On the other hand, there’d been real fear in the android’s face and voice at the idea of his partner becoming ill, and she didn’t think that was a common emotion for him. She was completely (though understandably) wrong about the Master and fear, but that’s for a different story.

“But is he… not well?” 

Mister Robot permitted himself a sad smile that hinted at so much, acknowledged their shared concern, but gave no actual answer.  Then he put his gloved hand on hers, confirming some unspoken pact. “One does one's best,” he reminded her, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it did.


	5. Chapter 5

Mister Robot had run another scan and found that Alison was probably no longer contagious, but they both wanted to be cautious, so she would wait before seeing the Doctor.

“I feel so restless!”

“Would you like to get up? You shouldn't exert yourself, but you might take a short walk if you feel strong enough. It would give the TARDIS a chance to sterilise this room.  You could visit the Gardens, if you like. The Doctor is busy in the lab and doesn't usually go there anymore…”

“Oh, yes, I'd like that!  But first, I'm dying for a shower.”  She'd missed something, but was too excited at having a change of scene to backtrack now.

"By all means. The hot water will help your breathing. ”

Alison took the offered hand and he helped her up, but she was pleased to find that the dizziness was almost gone and she could walk unaided.

She wanted desperately to give Mister Robot a hug, but wasn't sure he'd appreciate that, and didn’t quite know how to ask.  She settled for grasping his hand in both of hers and trying to put all her thanks into one brilliant smile.  

“I’m merely fulfilling a promise to the Doctor.”  The robotic face really was amazingly good:  it allowed him to _unsuccessfully_ attempt stay solemn.

Alison washed thoroughly; the water felt heavenly and she did her deep breaths under the steam.  She kneaded diluted shampoo into her braids and scalp, but she was tiring quickly, so she aimed the showerhead to mostly rinse out her hair whilst she leaned against the tiled wall.  The squares of cool glass against her face, chest, and arms seemed to be drawing out what was left of the fever.

When she came out into her room, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, hair in a towel, Mister Robot was nowhere to be seen.  Alison put on a warm, comfortably worn green hoodie and tracksuit bottoms, and, because her braids would take a while to dry, a slouchy knit beanie.  By the time she had got dressed she felt shaky and was wheezing badly, so she sat down to rest a bit before leaving.  

A little later there was a knock at the door, and she got up, because she could.  Just walking across the room made her short of breath, but on the plus side Mister Robot was in the corridor with some picnic blankets and a thermos.  She hadn't realised he meant to go to the gardens with her, and was surprised to find herself still glad of the company… And possibly eager to ask more questions.

The ship must have rearranged corridors so that the way to the Gardens was a very short walk. Alison would have remembered if they'd been that close to her room before.  “Is the TARDIS this nice to everyone, or … does it sort of _like_ me?”  It seemed silly to ask, but the time-machine was obviously sentient, there was no getting round that.  And if so, it likely had preferences.

“Yes, a great deal.  It’s always terribly inconvenient when she chooses a favourite!”

Assuming Mister Robot was still speaking Gallifreyan, the TARDIS had interpreted this.  Perhaps it --no, _she_ \-- also had a sense of humour.

They’d had to stop walking to have even that short exchange, though, because Alison was wheezing again by the time she got to the end of her question.  Mister Robot transferred all the things he was carrying to one arm and fished in a pocket with his free hand.  He handed her a small factory-sealed packet that looked vaguely pharmaceutical.  

“You may need this, after all.”

She had a look at the small print, but most of it was medication names (meaningless to a generally healthy history major) and warnings.  She did recognise the phrase “bronchodilator” and a European manufacturer.  Oh, good!  So, one, this was something from Earth, and two, it was meant to help open up the air spaces in her lungs.  She tore open the packet, only to find one of the Doctor’s inhalers.  At least it was a new one.  Mister Robot had to show her how to use it, and the first puff of medication felt so odd that she would have spat it out if she could.  She was breathing a bit easier, though, and they started walking again.

Soon Alison was sitting on one of the blankets spread out on a moss-cushioned incline and Mister Robot was perched on a large rock, his crisp black suit looking awfully out of place surrounded by nature.  And what nature it was!  From here they could look out over a large expanse of rolling hillocks bordered by forest, and see that in some places the green gave way to red grass with silver trees, and in yet others the hills teemed with unnameable vegetation in a hue that she could only imagine was octarine.  How much of this place was real, and what did that even mean in a space (if you could even call it that) between dimensions? The air certainly felt as if all these plants were contributing their oxygen to it.  Did flora on other planets even do that?!  She thought they must, in the places with a similar atmosphere to Earth’s.

“Is this... like, if you picked that strawberry over there and ate it…?”

“Yes, it’s all quite real, unlike some other rooms in the TARDIS.  Except of course the sunlight, but you’ll have noticed it’s an excellent simulation.”  

In fact, she’d been so warm and content under its light, that she had forgotten the sun must be false.  

He reached down, plucked the indicated strawberry off the plant, and tossed it to her.

Oh.  She shouldn’t have said that, she thought just as she popped it in her mouth.  Robots can't eat.  “Crap! Sorry!”, she said around bits of the (very good _and_ very real) fruit.  

“I am quite accustomed to my fate by now, Miss Cheney.”

“You said the Doctor doesn’t come here anymore… But you do?”

“It is a way to spend some time out-of-doors… or at least a semblance thereof.”

“Yeah.”  She’d seen him standing in the door of the TARDIS as she and the Doctor went off exploring.  Calling out a last snarky reminder; anticipating adventures that should have been his, perhaps already impatient for the Doctor’s return.  Something welled up in her… not pity so much as… the _unfairness_ of it.  Whatever he’d done, did he deserve this?!

The Master chuckled in that unsettling way that she hadn’t heard since her first days onboard.  “The Doctor hasn’t told you who I am.”  It wasn’t a question.

Alison brushed aside the fact that he was definitely reading, voluntarily or not, at least her louder thoughts.  That didn’t matter just now. “He told me you were his childhood friend.  And of course obviously now you’re his…” Did their planet’s people even _do_ marriage?  Well, regardless, they were some kind of couple, “...which is _lovely_!”

Mister Robot laughed in a different way this time, a sort of surprised chuckle.  His voice was heavy with memories, not all of them bad, when he spoke again:  “The point of the current experiment was, after all, a second chance.  Or perhaps twenty-second, but who’s counting.”

“Whoever you used to be, you lo--” but she didn’t want to embarrass him, “you _look after_ the Doctor, and that matters.  And you’ve been very kind to me.”

“Perhaps one day I shall tell you some stories, Miss Cheney, that may cause you to revise your opinion. But today, I shall bask in the unreal sun.”

Alison leaned back and soon fell asleep; at some point the Master must have draped the other blanket over her.  With her head uphill of her body she could breathe fairly well, but even so a fit of coughing woke her up some time later.  She sat up, gasping for breath and fishing for tissues in her hoodie’s pocket.  She looked round once she was done clearing her _lungs_ , but Mister Robot was nowhere to be seen.  She wouldn’t have any trouble finding her way back out of the Gardens, though.  They had only gone just barely far enough in so that they couldn’t see the door, and even if she didn’t remember, the TARDIS would show her.  She had some tea out of the thermos, snuggled back down between the blankets, and drifted off again.  She’d never slept so much in her life as she was sleeping this week, but she didn’t fight it.

Next thing she knew, Mister Robot was shaking her awake.  “We must leave.  It is waiting for us to be gone so that it can rain.”

Indeed, the artificial sun had given way to (real?) stormclouds and the air was already cooling.  Alison sat up, coughed, got to her feet, and coughed some more.  She kept one of the blankets around her shoulders, and Mister Robot carried the other. He offered her his other arm, and as she was feeling a little shaky again, she took it.  As they reached the door, the thunder started.

The gardens, she thought, were even more incredible than the zeppelin hangar.


	6. Chapter 6

“Have you always liked to cook?” 

Alison was halfway through a bowl of chicken soup that, despite the lack of matzoh balls or the actual chicken foot, was  _ almost _ on a par with either of her grandmas’ favourite recipes.  

“You mean, did I learn the culinary arts when I had a biological body and could enjoy the results.  Sadly, no.  In those days, I preferred to have such things done for me.”

“hmm?” Her mouth was still full of noodles.

He continued, “You’ve never had the Doctor’s cooking… and there’s a reason you haven’t.” He grimaced, with just a hint of melodrama. “There are certain habits I have fallen into, that have been appreciated.”

Alison refrained from making any sounds to reflect how cute she found this, not only that he would learn a whole new skill just because the Doctor liked it, but that he would, sort of, admit it.  But she smiled so hard that her eyes squinched up.  Mister Robot was lucky he couldn’t blush.  

“Still, it must be sort of handy?” She gestured to indicate his whole body, “Never being ill, never getting badly hurt?”

“When one is a machine, this raises the question, whose machine and for what purpose.”

Both were silent a moment, digesting the idea, as Alison tilted the bowl to catch the last of the broth with her spoon.  You don’t waste good soup.  And how should she ask all the curiosities that were swimming in her mind?

Mister Robot took something out of his pocket that looked a bit like an old flip-phone, but when opened revealed not just a keypad but also several dials, small readouts like on a calculator, and a large red button.  

“The Doctor constructed the first version of this body, downloaded my consciousness from the TARDIS datacore into here,” tapping his head, “and woke me up.”  He mimicked jabbing the imposing button on the remote.

“That must’ve been... really weird.”

“That, my dear Miss Cheney, is an understatement.”

It occurred to Alison that this kind of switch was called a  _ power _ button.

“We have an arrangement, of sorts. The Doctor  _ gives _ me as much freedom as possible, and I refrain from taking full advantage of it.”

She wanted to ask Why? She wanted to ask how they'd come to this arrangement. She wanted to ask what he would do if he had complete freedom? She thought the answer to the last question might be too sad.

Mister Robot startled her with a near perfect imitation of the Doctor's voice and very slightly off-key singing: “I’ve grown accustomed to __ face.”

Alison laughed so hard at the accurate mimicry that she started wheezing, and had to use the inhaler again.  But there was something that had been in the periphery of her consciousness and she’d just properly noticed it.  “You don't call the Doctor anything,” she said when she could catch her breath. 

“Of course I do. I call __ Doctor.”

“I mean, there’s like, a sort of dead air where…” then the penny dropped “the TARDIS doesn't translate the pronouns?!”

“Ah, yes… I suppose it's no secret.”

“Well it's a secret from me. Is this another one I should wait for him to explain?”

“The Doctor isn't a  _ him _ .”

“Oh,” said Alison.

“Or a  _ her _ .”

“So…”

“I suppose in  _ your vernacular _ ” here he turned up his nose at the entire last several centuries of English language history “you might say ‘they’.  Of course in Gallifreyan we have more subtle and suitable vocabulary.”

“Oh.”

There'd been one or two people at Uni who she’d heard called themselves genderless, and they did sort of look it, as well… but she hadn't really gotten to know any of them closely. And the Doctor looked like a bloke, so she'd assumed… but then people assume lots of things, don't they?  Like that if you're Black you can't be Jewish.  Or that every Jewish girl would be happy to marry a doctor.  Or that if your dad’s Caribbean your family's not really English.  Or that if you like clubbing and dislike being alone, you must like sex.  Or that prehistoric artists were all men.  Or that just because they’ve never seen proof of time travel, that it can't exist. Or that love conquers all. Or that robots don't have feelings. People assume loads of things that are actually rubbish.

“So is he - er - I've been awfully rude to the Doctor all this time calling him - er, them, ‘he’!”  

“Oh __’s not overly concerned with the finer details of grammar.”

“Oh, that's a relief! But I'll try to say ‘they’ from now on.”

“You appear quite eager to call people” (except that the original word must've been wider, to include other sorts of sentient beings like the TARDIS) “what they prefer to be called...” Mister Robot paused meaningfully.

_ Oh no. Oh noooo.  _ She’d never meant to hurt him, calling him that  _ in the privacy of her own head! _ People weren't  _ supposed _ to be able to just casually read your mind without even trying. His chosen name left a bad taste in her mouth, and she didn’t fancy his whole “I am the Master and you shall obey me” spiel that he hadn't quite got the chance to try on her... before he seemed to have decided not to. She'd since seen him use his particular combination of persuasion and hypnosis, sometimes to great effect, on a few pesky aliens that got too close to the TARDIS. But that must have been an (admittedly useful) relic of those days he hadn't yet told her about. 

He currently seemed a man who was trying very deliberately to be… what?  Not  _ good _ , nor even ethical, because she’d got the sense those still didn't matter to him. Perhaps he was deliberately choosing to maintain those ‘habits that had been appreciated’, in the interests of the Doctor's happiness, or at least in the interests of not bringing them more sadness. He was also intent on keeping as much autonomy as possible, despite living as an automaton with a literal off-switch. He might not be The Master Universally, if he ever had been… but he  _ would _ be the master of his own destiny. Alison felt she could respect that.

“Hey, um... sorry for… you know…” 

The Master blinked. “You perhaps underestimate my ability to see the humour of the situation, my dear.”

“Oh.”

“But if you  _ ever _ call me Mister Robot in front of the Doctor, I shall be forced to poison your tea.”

There was a tense moment of eye contact before first his then her straight face crumpled, and they both laughed until Alison was quite out of breath.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much to everyone who beta-ed!!


End file.
